


Since I Let Myself Fall

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_xmas, First Time, M/M, Underage Sex, wee!cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a crush, Sam has a date, and neither of them are happy about it.</p><p>(minor underage: Sam is 17)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since I Let Myself Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [locknkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/locknkey/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Потому что я поддался](https://archiveofourown.org/works/278834) by [Фиолетовая Лиса (purple_fox)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_fox/pseuds/%D0%A4%D0%B8%D0%BE%D0%BB%D0%B5%D1%82%D0%BE%D0%B2%D0%B0%D1%8F%20%D0%9B%D0%B8%D1%81%D0%B0)



> written for [locknkey](http://locknkey.livejournal.com) for the spn_j2_xmas challenge.
> 
> This fic is now (4/26/11) [available in Russian](http://purplefox.diary.ru/p154216025.htm), thanks to the tireless efforts of the lovely Purple Foxy!

Dean has a crush, Sam has a date, and neither of them are happy about it.

 **Note:** Pinch-hit for in the , who wanted wee!cest, UST, first time, marking, possessive boys, and sex/making out/kissing. These are the youngest I've written the boys before, so there's that. Also, I wish I'd had more time to draw out the UST on this one, because it would've been fun, but that's life. =P I hope you are pleased, dear!

 

Dean isn't sure when Sammy-his-kid-brother became Sammy-this-huge-hulking-dude, but he suspects it happened sometime between Sam turning fifteen in Fort Union, New Mexico where Dad put a girl caught in a death waltz to rest, and Sam turning seventeen three weeks ago in this rented house in Connecticut.  They moved here at first because Dad got wind of a sighting of a black dog, but they've stuck around for almost three months now.

Dean's getting restless, trapped in one place, working at a mechanic shop down the street from their place, keeping an eye on Sammy.  But being stationary seems to be doing Sam good: he seems happier, calmer, less likely to get into a screaming match with John.  He's even being helpful, for once in his life, cooking dinner before Dean gets home (and, okay, he sucks at it, but it's better than nothing), doing laundry once his homework's done.  He even mowed the lawn yesterday, and Dean found him sitting on the sagging back porch with a beer in his hand, actually looking like he didn't want to murder anything.

But Dean would be fucking kidding himself if he thought that it was _only_ being pinned down for a couple of months that was getting under his skin.

Sam's out of school for the summer, finished his junior year, and normally Dad would be up and out of there the minute the bell rang on the last day, but he's been gone for two weeks now, on a job a few hours drive away, and Dean's not sure when he's coming back.  So Dean works on cars and comes home to Sam ruining microwave burritos, and they sit on the couch Dean found in a dumpster and vehemently vacuumed and exorcised, and watch what TV they can get, and Sam putters around the house and reads too many books and falls asleep with his head on Dean's shoulder, and it's getting to be too much.

Dean needs to get out of there, move on, shake things up.

Because the poison in his mind is starting to act up, and he's starting to think things he shouldn't, and Sam is too peaceful and content and amiable, and it's too fucking perfect and easy.  It's too easy to imagine that this is his home, and Sam is his to come home to.  It's too simple to think about coming up behind Sam-- now taller than Dean, the little shit-- and wrapping his arms around Sam's middle, pressing his face to Sam's warm, firm shoulder, breathing in the smell of his brother.  In his imagination, Sam just smiles in fond exasperation and shakes him off and says, "C'mon, man, I'm cooking."

And Dean would say, "You suck at it," and he would mean it, but Sam would put down the wooden spoon or whatever and turn around, and back Dean up against the kitchen table and kiss him breathless--

The fantasy always sort of ends there, because that is some fucked up shit, and Dean does not want that completed thought to ever, ever, ever see the light of day.

Because Dean is twenty-one now, and he has no fucking business lusting after his little brother, even if his little brother put on thirty pounds of muscle from a combination of playing soccer and lifting at the school gym and sparring and running with Dean, almost without Dean even noticing.  Not that he ever had any business lusting after his brother at all.  When Dad says "Keep an eye on Sammy," he definitely does not mean "Sam's ass."

Shit.

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to refrain from rubbing his hand, coated with grease and car oil, through his hair, as he mounts the steps to their place.  He can smell something burning, but the overlying smell of what might be pizza isn't that unappealing, and Dean's attention is removed from how shitty it is that he's kind of a little bit got a crazy thing for his brother, and redirected to his stomach.

"What the fuck did you do now?" he hollers, banging in the front door and unzipping and dropping his coveralls in the living room, exactly where Sam keeps telling him not to.

"I um," Sam says, poking his head out the kitchen, and it's so fucking adorable Dean wants to die.  "Well, there was pineapple at the store.  And I found some ham left over from when I was making lunch for school--"

"Gross, dude, stop right there," Dean says, pushing his way past his brother and turning off the oven.  "I've got some cash, we'll order out."

Sam looks a little put out, and Dean almost misses the scowl that mars his face, but Sam says, "I tried."

Dean rolls his eyes.  "I know you wanna be a housewife when you grow up, but you're gonna need some more practice there, Betty Crocker."

The glare he gets in response is akin to the death stares Sam gives the back of their dad's head when they're uprooting yet again, and Dean barely avoids wincing.  Sam snorts and turns away, and Dean can hear him stomping through the house and slamming the door to their room.  Dean stares after him, confused.  He hadn't even thought up something all that good.  Normally a you're-a-girl jab just got him a punch on the shoulder and a crack about the size of his dick, but now he's lost.

Dean opens up the oven and, covering a hand with a towel from the sink, pulls out the pan.  On it sits a rectangular, slightly burnt Hawaiian pizza that looks fairly promising, and Dean sticks it back in the oven to sit in the heat a little longer.  Maybe Sam will come back and finish it up if he disappears to take a shower for long enough.

The pizza is still sitting in the oven, starting to cool, when Dean gets out of the shower.  He checks it, frowning, and walks barefoot and swathed in a towel back to the room he shares with Sam.

Before he can do the right thing and throw the door open without warning, he hears Sam talking.

"He's just being a fucking dick, that's all."  Oh, awesome.  He is one hundred percent talking about Dean, and that makes Dean feel just great.  He rests his forehead against the door and sighs.  "Yeah, I know," Sam says, and then laughs softly.  "Whatever.  I just... wanted to talk to you."  Dean straightens up.  He's never dated anyone long enough to want to call them "just to talk," but he's seen enough movies to know what the fuck that means.

Sam laughs again on the other side of the door, a low chuckle, and Dean curses under his breath.  He's standing in the hallway in nothing but a towel, getting hard at the sound of Sam's voice, and he is so screwed up.  He should have jerked off in the shower like a normal person, and this wouldn't be a problem.

"So," Sam says, and Dean can hear him pacing, "do you wanna catch a movie soon?  I don't know how long-- yeah, we might be out of here soon.  That's us."  A pause.  "Yeah.  I can pick you up."  Fuck no, he can not, Dean thinks.  Not in his car.  "Sure.  We could get something to eat first."  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, takes a breath, and opens the door.

Sam looks up, surprised and a little annoyed, and says, "I gotta go.  I'll call you later," and hangs up.  "What the fuck, dude?"

"I'm naked, here," Dean snarls, yanking open the dresser drawer that sticks.  "I'm not going to stand outside all fucking day listening to you have phonesex with your girlfriend."

"What?"  Sam sounds incredulous, and Dean doesn't look at him as he drops the towel and pulls on a clean pair of boxers as fast as he can.  Sam makes a weird choking noise behind him, mutters, "I wasn't having _phonesex_ with my _girlfriend_ , jerk," and storms out of the room.

Whatever.  Sam's not the one half-hard and standing there freezing cold.  Dean zips up his jeans and pulls on a t-shirt that's probably clean, judging by which pile it's sitting in, and follows Sam back into the kitchen.

"It looks okay," he offers, coming in behind his brother, and Sam straightens up.  His cheeks are pink and he avoids looking at Dean, but Dean is too busy not looking at him, so he doesn't really notice when Sam bangs open the cupboards for plates and shoves a pale blue "#1 Grandma" mug at Dean, all without meeting his eyes.

They eat on the couch in the living room in quiet.  The pizza is not half-bad, although it's slightly burnt and the weeks-old ham is suspicious, and Dean nudges his brother with his elbow.  Sam jerks and spills his coke, and Dean snorts with laughter.

"Dude, you're a spaz.  Chill out."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles, trying to wipe the soda off his lap and succeeding only in soaking both his jeans and his shirt.  Dean just laughs.  Sam might be stupidly hot and fucking with Dean's mind, but he's still a klutz with too many limbs and not enough coordination.  Dean tries to ignore the way his blood is pulsing slow and heavy in his groin, and focuses instead on teasing his brother mercilessly.

The next morning, Sam catches Dean before he gets out the door to go to work.

"Can I have the car tonight?"

"Why?" Dean asks, smirking.  "Got a hot date?"

Sam blushes, and Dean's heart sinks.  "No," Sam says, but Dean knows that tone of voice.

"Fine," he says.  "But don't park her where she'll get dinged, don't crash her, don't spill shit on the seats, and don't fuck in her."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam hisses.  "Okay, first of all, it's not a date.  Second, you fuck girls in the back of the car all the time!"

"Right," Dean says, grinning.  "My car, my rules."

He gets an epic bitchface for his troubles, so he throws the car keys at Sam's head and leaves.

Dean is jittery all day.  He takes too long with an oil change, and gets scolded for his clumsiness while he's under the hood of some sweet old Charger.  He tosses the wrench in his toolbox and rubs grimy hands over his face, and his boss, Tim, just laughs at him.

"You got a bug up your ass, Winchester?"

Dean rolls his eyes.  He wishes.  "No," he says.  "Just.  My brother's on summer break and he won't get out of the damn house."  Except today, he doesn't add, where he's taking some chick out on a date in Dean's car, and Dean can't help the hot, ugly twisting in his gut.

"Bouncing off the walls?" Tim asks, and Dean shrugs half-heartedly. 

"I'm gonna take a break."

After work, Dean doesn't even bother going home.  Dad's due to call tomorrow, check in, tell them he'll be another week or whatever, but that's tomorrow, and this is tonight.

There's a bar down the street from the shop, and Tim and Steve and Joe drag him along.  Not that he needs much dragging.  He's using his real ID, the one with his real name and his real age, and it feels weird.  Tim and Joe steer them towards a table and come back with beers, and Dean proceeds to get fairly drunk fairly quickly.  The bar is warm and smokey, and Dean's eyeing a handful of girls at the bar when Steve nudges him with his elbow.

"Hey," he says, "Think you could take two of 'em home?"

Dean flushes, heat running from his hands to his face to his dick.  He shakes his head.  "Nah," he says, and he's not sure why.  "I gotta go home to Sammy sometime."  Except, he doesn't, really, because Sammy could be out all right, despite what Dad's always saying about curfew, and he doesn't need Dean hanging around, looking after him all the fucking time, being his keeper.

Steve shrugs.  "Your loss, I guess.  Didn't think you would."

Dean narrows his eyes.  "Fifty bucks says I can get a kiss from all four of those girls."

"Kisses are easy," Steve crows.  "I'll give you an hour.  If you can feel them all up, I'll give you fifty."

"Fine," Dean says, pushing off the table.  "I'll be back soon for my money."

Steve ends up giving him a hundred dollars, because not only did he get each of the four girls to let him touch their tits (please, child's play), but he coaxes two of them off to the bathroom and ends up watching them make out around his dick until he comes in the brunette's mouth (Jane?  Joanna?).

"Wow," Tim says when Steve regales him with the story, and Dean just smirks.  Inside he feels sick, his stomach churning and his skin prickling uncomfortably with sweat.  It was fine, the girls were hot, and he got off, but he feels dirty.

"I need to go home," he says, hopefully firmly, and he gets out the door with minimal incident.  The walk back to their rented house is longer than he remembers it being, but it might be all the extra steps he's taking to stay headed in one direction.

The Impala is sitting on the street when he gets there, and he slumps up against her driver side door, petting her dark frame.

"Hey baby," he murmurs, sweet and low, "Sammy didn't fuck you up too bad?  You been a good girl?  I'm sorry I let him take you out, gorgeous--"

He stops, catching sight of movement inside the car.  Oh fuck no.  Sam better not be fucking his girlfriend in the back of the car _right now_.  Their house is like, four steps away, and that's just ridiculous.

Dean wrenches open the door to the backseat, and Sam jerks his head up.  He's alone.

"Oh fuck," Sam says, dropping his head back against the seats.  "Go 'way, Dean."

He's drunk.  Sam, not Dean.  Although Dean is also drunk.  They're both drunk.  He grins.  "Hey bitch."

"Fuck off," Sam mutters, "you smell like sex."

"This car smells like sex," Dean counters, frowning.  "You did fuck in here!  Shit, man, I told you not to!"

It doesn't help that the car smelling like sex and Sam in the car gets put together by his brain as the car smelling like Sam when he's having sex, and Dean's cock twitches in his pants.  What the hell.

"It didn't work," Sam moans pitifully, curling away from Dean as Dean climbs into the car with him.

"What?" Dean says.  "You didn't fuck her?  Yeah you did, I can tell."

"Yeah, I fucked her," Sam snaps, waving his hands at Dean, uncoordinated.  Overlying the smell of sex is the smell of Jack, and Dean winces.  "I fucked her, right there."  Sam points, and Dean winces again.

"Gross, dude."

"But it didn't work."  Sam shakes his head, staring at his lap, and then out the window, speaking so low Dean thinks maybe he's forgotten Dean is even there.

He looks so forlorn that Dean reaches over to touch his cheek.  Sam's face is smooth and warm under his fingers.  Sam flinches away, bangs his head on the window, and grunts.

"Ow, what the fuck."

"Were you a virgin?" Dean asks out of nowhere, and all of a sudden he has to know.  Some part of him wanted Dean to be Sam's first, and his stomach gives a sickening little twist of jealousy.

Sam's laugh surprises him, and he looks up to see Sam's eyes, glinting in the dark.  "No," Sam says, "Jesus.  I'm seventeen, dude, plus I've got _you_ for a brother."  He looks like he's going to laugh again, but his face falls, and he turns away.  "Yeah.  You for a brother."

Dean doesn't need to reminded.  He presses closer, sliding his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam tries to shift away.  Dean puts his head on Sam's shoulder.  "It's okay, Sammy," he murmurs.  "You don't have to be embarrassed."

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh and shrugs Dean's arm off, sliding forwards, and Dean has to put his hand on the door to stay upright.

"So what didn't work about it?" Dean asks, leering.  "She not any good?  _You_ not any good?"

"Fuck you," Sam says, pushing his elbow.  Dean's arm buckles and he falls sideways into the seat.  It's more comfortable lying down, and he squirms in the seat, looking up at Sam's shadowed face.

"Come on," he prods, sneaking his hand up Sam's back.  He's feeling bold, all the liquor in his blood making him crazy, reckless.  Sam looks pained, and he turns his head away.  Dean hers the sloshing of liquid in a bottle, and lifts his head to see Sam taking another slug of whiskey.

"I'm so fucked up," Sam whispers, and coughs around the burn.  "God damn, Dean, just go away.  Let me be fucked up by myself."

"I'm fucked up, too," Dean says.  Why is Sam so upset about being drunk? he wonders.  They've been drunk together before.  Maybe it's the way Dean is getting all grabby and creepy.  Dean sits up, taking his hands as far away from his brother as he can, and Sam sighs.

"It wasn't good," he admits, "because I wasn't into her.  I'm not into her."  He sighs.  "She's nice and stuff, and cute, and she looks hot when she wears these boots, and she's got really nice hair, and... and she's really good at sucking dick--"

"Okay," Dean says, "too much info, dude."

Sam looks at his hands, twisting together in his lap.  "Dean--"

"Let's get you inside, cowboy," Dean interrupts, loudly.  He reaches across Sam and opens the door, and Sam all but tumbles out onto the sidewalk.  Dean climbs out after him, grabbing his brother by his coat and hauling him to his feet.  "What were you doing in there anyway?  Besides, you know, drinking and fucking."

"Smells like you," Sam murmurs, sagging into Dean.  Dean almost drops him.

"Dude, I don't smell like pussy all the time," he says.

"Ugh, shut up."  Sam manages to get the door open and they fall together into the living room.  Sam makes it to the couch and Dean closes the door behind him and stumbles to the kitchen.

He comes back with water, and Sam takes it gratefully and chugs it down.  Dean tries very hard, valiantly even, not to watch his throat working as he swallows, the drops of water that escape and run down his chin, and fails miserably.

Sam's eyes are dark when he turns them on Dean again, and Dean swallows hard.  He feels a lot more sober than he did before, and at the same time a lot less steady.  Sam reaches out and curls his fingers around the back of Dean's neck.  It's uncomfortably intimate, and Dean can feel his hands shaking.  He's getting hard again, too, and how he's managing that after a blowjob and way too much alcohol, he's not sure.

"Didn't want her," Sam says.  "Took her home and came back and just sat in the car."  He laughs, mirthless, and lets go of Dean's neck.  His runs both hands through his hair instead, pushing it back from his face.  "Just sat in the car."  He drops his hands and pushes his way off the couch, stumbling, and heads for the bedroom. 

Dean follows him, not sure whether he should.  Sam is stripping off his shirt and throwing it in the corner, and Dean's breath catches in his throat.  The room is dark, but the light from the streetlamps shines in through the window, and Sam is silhouetted against it.  The light highlights the mess of his hair, the lines of his arms and torso, muscles flexing under his skin.  Dean can see the long scar down his side, rough line on his smooth skin, and he swallows convulsively.

Sam is muttering to himself as he tugs off his jeans, and Dean takes a step into the room. 

"Fucking sick," Sam murmurs, "so fucking sick.  So fucked up.  Can't want, can't have, not ever.  Not ever."

"Hey," Dean says, and Sam turns abruptly, catches himself on his bed.  "You gonna be sick?"

Sam snorts.  "Already am.  Not gonna throw up, though, if that's what you mean."

Dean steps closer, and he realizes before he knows it that his hands are creeping towards Sam's.  He stops them, hovering awkwardly in the air, and shoves them in his pockets.  "I know it's tough to have a girlfriend," he says.  "What with us always on the move.  You've been doin' real good, though, Sammy, makin' friends and stuff."  Sam starts to turn away, and Dean grabs his shoulders.  "No, man, listen.  I'm sorry, okay?  I'm sorry it's gotta be like this, but-- what Dad does, what we do, it's real important.  We'll go hunting, all three of us, this summer, I promise.  Make you forget all this crap."

Sam takes a deep breath, huge palm covering his face, and stares at Dean between his fingers.  "You think that's the problem?  I'm upset about not getting to have a girlfriend?"

Dean drops his hands.  "Well, yeah.  Isn't it?"  Jealousy is starting to tangle up his guts again, squeezing, and he's pretty sure the haze of alcohol isn't helping.  The thought of Sam with a girl in his arms, kissing her, touching her, fucking her, makes his chest hurt.  He imagines Sam in the back of the Impala, hunched in the seat, the girl's legs spread over his thighs, his cock hard and leaking, fucking into her, sliding into slippery heat.  He'd be sweating, and the car windows would be all fogged up, and he'd kiss her while he fucked her, and--

Sam is looking at him strangely, eyes narrowed, fists clenched.  Dean hopes very much he didn't say any of that out loud, even as his face heats and his cock swells. 

"I don't _want_ a girlfriend," Sam hisses.

"Well what the fuck do you want?" Dean demands, taking a step back, defensive.

Sam's face crumples, and his anger drains suddenly into misery.  "You," he says, voice a quiet whine, and slaps a hand over his mouth.  "Oh shit.  Oh fuck, Dean, please, that wasn't."  His words are muffled by his hand.  "Oh god.

Dean stares at him.  Sam turns away, shoulders shaking, covering his face in shock and shame.  Dean can't breathe, can't feel his fingers, can't think past that word coming out of Sam's mouth.  He reaches out blindly, finds Sam's back, bare and warm under his palm, and Sam jerks like he's been struck.

"Sam," he says, and Sam turns back to him.  His face is wet, in the weird light coming in the window, and Dean realizes he's crying.  "Hey, Sammy, come on."  He takes another step forwards and curls his hands around Sam's upper arms, fingers flexing and digging into his biceps.  "Hey.  Shh, it's okay."

"It's not okay," Sam spits.  "Jesus, Dean, do you even-?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes, sliding one hand up Sam's shoulder to his neck, up the back of his neck, cupping the back of his head.  Sam's little unconscious sigh edges him on, and he curls his fingers in Sam's too-long hair.  "Come on, Sammy."  This is the chance he didn't know he'd been waiting for.  This is so insane, he thinks, rubbing the pads of his fingers gently over the base of Sam's skull.  Sam's breathing is harsh and stilted, but he isn't pulling away, and Dean eases in a little closer.  "What if-" he starts, and then Sam pulls away.

"Don't fuck with me," he growls, and Dean catches him again.  This time he gets both his hands in Sam's hair, and it's silky and unbearably soft between his fingers, and he tugs Sam's damp face down to his.  He presses his forehead to Sam's, breathing in the smell of liquor and salt and Sam.  Sam takes a hitching breath and sighs, and his hands come up slowly to rest on Dean's ribs.

"M'not," Dean whispers.  "What if you could have me?" he asks.  "What if you weren't the only one who's fucked up?"  He closes his eyes.  "Come on, baby boy, what if?"

"God," Sam moans, barely audible, and Dean tilts his head up a fraction of an inch.  Sam's lips are warm and soft and wet, and Dean kisses him tentatively.  His elbows are resting on Sam's shoulders, cradling his head, and Sam's fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt.  Dean kisses him again, soft and gentle and way too slow, and Sam growls in his throat and hauls Dean up against him, kissing him harder.

Dean opens his mouth, and Sam takes the invitation for what it is and slides his tongue in.  Dean groans, tilting his head and pressing himself more firmly against his brother, finding a better angle.  Sam is still almost completely undressed, and Dean is completely dressed, and Sam tugs at his shirt as they kiss, sharing breath, licking at each other, biting.  Dean bites Sam's lip and Sam hums and breaks the kiss the pull Dean's t-shirt over his head, throws it aside, and starts to kiss him again, running his hands up and down Dean's back.

"C'mon," Dean says, pushing Sam to his bed and pulling the covers back.  Sam gives him a confused look, one eyebrow raised, and Dean pushes him again.  Sam sprawls on the bed-- it's too small for his frame, and it sure as fuck isn't going to fit both of them, but Dean shucks off his jeans, stepping on the cuffs to get his legs free, and crawls in on top of Sam.

"Dean," Sam whispers, framing his face with his hands, and Dean pulls the sheet up and kisses him again.

"You're drunk," Dean murmurs, kissing him over and over.

"So're you," Sam replies, pulling Dean against him.  His chest is warm and firm, his hands are steady on Dean's back, and he tucks his head under Dean's chin, like he's a kid again.  His breath is damp on Dean's collarbone, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.  He's so horny, so wound up, and so confused.  He runs a hand through Sam's hair, and Sam presses a kiss to his collarbone.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

"Mm," says Sam.  "Dean?"

"Yeah?"  It's barely more than an exhalation into the dark of their room.  He stares up at the ceiling, his brother in his arms, mind a confused swirl of lust and booze and too hot in the summer.

"Love you so much," Sam says.  "So fucking much.  Sometimes I can't even think.  Dean, do you even know?"  His words are slurred, sleep and alcohol confusing them, twisting them together.  Dean's heart stops and starts again in his chest, and he takes a shuddering breath.

"Yeah."

===

Dean wakes to the sound of his phone ringing.  The morning sunlight is streaming in painfully, bright and fucking cheerful.  Dean lifts his head.  The room is at the wrong angle, door too far away, window too close.  He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut, and opens them.  Sam is asleep still, tucked into his side, arm heavy over Dean's waist, his face pressed to Dean's shoulder.

Oh.  Oh shit.

The phone is still ringing.  Dean scrambles up and out of bed, jostling Sam awake, and grabs his jeans.  He gets the phone out of the pocket just as it stops ringing.

"Fuck!"

"What?" Sam asks, groggy, his hair all over the place.  He looks like a giant dog, stupid and confused, and Dean's throat gets tight.

"Um," he says.  He's wearing his boxers, thank god, and so is Sam.  He can't quite remember how last night ended, but he's mostly sure he didn't fuck his little brother.  Mostly.

The phone starts to ring again, and Dean picks up immediately.  "Dad?  Dad, hey."

John scolds him for not picking up the first time, sounding panicked.

"Sorry," Dean says quickly, "I couldn't find the phone.  Sorry dad."

"How's your brother?" John asks, voice small and far away.

"Good," Dean shrugs.  "You wanna talk to him?"

John pauses.  "No, that's okay.  He's doin' all right, though?"

"Yeah."  Dean turns his head to look at Sam, sitting in his bed, picking at a hole in the sheet.  "Dad--"

"Listen, Dean.  I'm on my way back, but I found something near here, poltergeist, I think, but after that I'll be there."

"Okay," Dean says.  There's no use in arguing.  At least Dad's planning on coming back at all.

"You okay for money?  And the car's okay?"

"Yup.  They're kind of paying me under the table at the shop."

"Good," John says.  "Okay, well, great.  Glad you boys are all right.  I'll see you soon."

"Take care, dad," Dean says.  "You need us for anything, you let us know, okay?"

"Sure," John replies, but Dean knows he won't.  "I'll be home soon, then we'll get out of Connecticut, find something for us all to do together.  You and Sam keeping in shape?"

Dean has.  He's not sure what Sam is up to anymore.  But Dean goes running every day, seven, eight miles, and on the weekends he makes Sam spar with him a little and shoot cans off the back fence.  So he says, "Yes sir," and he can hear John's sigh on the other end of the line.

"See you soon, Dean."

"Bye, dad."

Dean can hear derision in his brother's voice as he hangs up.  "So he didn't want to talk to me, then."

"Sam--"

"It's fine.  Dean," he starts, and stops again.  "What I said.  Last night.  I'm sorry, dude.  That was fucked up.  I was real drunk."

Dean turns around to look at him.  "So you didn't mean any of that-- that shit you said."

Sam shakes his head.  "Like I said, fucked up."

There's a bite mark on Sam's neck, small but obvious, almost purple.  Dean takes a deep breath.  "Where did that come from?" he asks, pointing.  Sam lifts his hand to his throat, touching it.

"Oh."  He gives Dean an awkward half-smile.  "I mean, you know, Mandy, from last--"

Dean's on the bed before he knows it, grabbing Sam's hand and pulling it away from the hickey.  He glares at for another second, and Sam says, "Dude, what?" before Dean leans in and fastens his mouth over the mark.

"Shit," Sam gasps, "Dean!"

Dean bites him, hard, sucking on the mark, changing it, making it bigger, making it his.  He presses a palm to the center of Sam's chest and bears him down onto the bed, sucking firmly on his neck.

"Oh fuck," Sam says, and then his hands are on Dean's shoulders.  "Dean, wait!"

Dean lets go with a wet 'pop' and drags his head up to meet Sam's eyes.  "Don't fuck with me," Dean says.  "You meant everything you said; shit, man."  He ducks his head again and finds a new place to bite, lick, suck another mark.  Sam scrabbles at his shoulders, at his head, fingers in his hair, clenching tight.  Dean's unsure whether he's trying to push him away or pull him closer, and Sam is apparently equally confused.

He says Dean's name again, and Dean licks up his throat and sucks another mark behind his ear.

Dean pulls away, resting on his hands above Sam.  Sam's eyes are wide, dark, confused, afraid.  Dean can see the fear in the way his breath is coming short, the way his gaze flicks over to the door and back to Dean, the way his hands shift uncertainly on Dean's body.

Dean's done hiding.  He's done fucking around.  He says, "I want you, Sammy, I want this," and Sam shudders, shifting, sliding his legs apart.  Dean settles easily between them, pelvis pushed up against Sam's, and Sam bites his lip. 

"Oh shit," Dean mutters, and leans in to coax his lip from between his teeth.  "Goddamn, Sammy, your fucking mouth," he says against Sam's lips.  Sam's mouth opens in another quiet gasp, and Dean takes advantage of it.  He kisses Sam forcefully, licking in, tasting sour sleep and stale liquor, and somehow he can't stop.  Sam lets go of Dean's hair to slide his arms instead around Dean's body, crushing him to his chest.  Sam is kissing back, letting go of all the hesitation and uncertainty and licking at Dean's mouth, sucking his tongue, inexpertly but with no lack of enthusiasm.

Dean starts to relax into the kiss, slowing it down, smoothing his thumb over Sam's cheek and curling his fingers around Sam's neck to tilt his head up for a better angle.  Sam moans with the shift, and Dean rocks against him.  His hard cock is tenting his shots ridiculously, but Sam is hard too, rubbing against him, and they fit together so uncomprehendingly well.

Sam suddenly shifts, dragging Dean and manhandling him until Sam is above him, straddling Dean's hips.  Dean jerks up, grabbing the back of Sam's head and slamming their mouths together again, and Sam groans, kissing and biting.  Dean's whole body feels hot, skin too sensitive, every place where Sam is touching him sending little shocks through him, down his spine, right to his dick.  He's leaking in his shorts, sticky and damp, and Sam starts rolling his hips down into him, aligning their cocks and rubbing with determination.

"Dean, fuck," Sam groans, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back.  Dean lifts his head and gets his mouth on the beautiful column of Sam's throat again, sucking another mark into the skin.  Sam shivers and grinds into him again.  Dean gets an arm around his shoulder and pulls him down so he can lick the bruises he made before, soothing them, worrying them.  Sam fumbles and leans over on one elbow, the other hand sliding down Dean's side.

His fingers are rough and hot on Dean's skin, rubbing circles down his ribs and over his abdomen, curling around his hip, sliding underneath the waist of his shorts.  Dean starts, and Sam's hand jerks up and away, and he pulls away from the assault of Dean's mouth.

Sam looks down at Dean with an intensity that makes Dean's stomach flip, and he tilts his chin up to kiss his brother again, at the same time taking Sam's hand in his and shoving into his boxers.  The first touch of his long, calloused fingers on Dean's dick are like little spots of fire, and he twitches even before Sam has a grip on him.  Pre-come leaks out the head of his cock, wet and sticky, and Sam rubs his thumb in it before he curls his fingers around the girth.  Dean moans into his mouth.  It's too much all at once, not enough, the circle of Sam's hand too loose and overwhelming.

"Good?" Sam breathes, closing his hand and stroking experimentally, slicking the movement with the wet spilling out with every beat of Dean's heart.  He can feel his pulse in his dick, trapped in Sam's fingers, and he nods.

"Yeah, shit, Sammy-- feel so good, baby boy, god."

Sam strokes up Dean's shaft, twisting his wrist to give himself more room in Dean's shorts, and looking down Dean's body to where his fist is moving.  Dean drops his head back and pants, unable to breathe.  Sam ducks his head and kisses Dean's throat, licking the crook of his neck, sucking a hickey into the front of his shoulder, all the while fisting Dean's cock firmly.  Dean's hips rise unconsciously, thrusting into Sam's fist, and Sam's pace increases.  He's rubbing his dick against Dean's abs, gasping into his neck, and Dean gets his brain in gear enough to grab Sam's hip and push his boxers down around his thighs.

Sam's cock is big, hard, flushed, wet at the tip, and Dean's mouth waters.

"Wanna suck you," he blurts, and Sam blinks.

"Huh?"

A laugh escapes from Dean's throat, and he rolls his eyes at his brother.  "Your dick, my mouth.  Keep up, Sammy."

"Fuck, yeah," Sam murmurs, and he lets go of Dean's cock.  Dean swears, but Sam is already pushing his shorts off and climbing up to straddle Dean's waist.

Dean takes a hold of his hips and urges him up until he's got a knee on either side of Dean's head.  His face is flushed, and Dean can't tell if he's blushing or seriously turned on, but the hard cock in his face is leading him to one conclusion rather than the other.  Sam braces his hands on the wall above the headboard and screws his eyes shut.  He's got his face tilted down so Dean can watch him, watch the way his mouth drops open when Dean sticks his tongue out to lick the head of his cock, the way he bites his lip when Dean takes it in his mouth. 

Sam tastes salty and clean, and Dean rubs his tongue under his head.  Sam's hip jerk in an aborted thrust forwards, and Sam groans, and Dean's hands fit on his hips perfectly, thumbs in the grooves of his thighs, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass.  He pulls Sam's hips towards his face, lifting his head and opening his throat, and Sam slides all the way in so Dean's got his nose pressed to Sam's taut abdomen.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck, Dean, jesus," Sam says, "what the fuck, dude, oh my god, yes."

Dean pushes on his hips, sliding Sam's dick out of his mouth, and takes a breath before pulling him back in, tongue sliding along the underside.  The head of Sam's cock rubs the roof of Dean's mouth and he almost chokes, but Sam feels it and pulls back enough.  Dean's eyes are watering, and that makes it hard to watch Sam's face as he fucks Dean's mouth.  Dean lets go of one hip to wipe his eyes, and Sam flushes further and tries to pull away.

"I'm hurting you, Dean, shit."

Dean shakes his head as much as he can while still keeping his lips around the thick head of Sam's cock, and says, "Uh uh."

Sam takes a shaky breath.  "Dean-"

Dean drops his head back onto Sam's pillow and licks around the head of Sam's cock, looking up at him, waiting for him to continue.  It's not exactly fair play, but he wants this so bad he can feel it thumping in his chest.

"Want you to fuck me," Sam says finally, eyes closed, fingers sliding uselessly against the wall.  "Please, Dean, gotta have you, want it so bad."

"How bad?" Dean asks, not taking his mouth off Sam's dick.

"So bad," Sam babbles, "wanted it for so fucking long, dude, I don't even know--"

"Okay, Sammy, okay, yeah, wanna fuck you," Dean admits, sliding his hands up Sam's body, caressing, touching every inch he never thought he'd be allowed to, skimming over his abdomen and over his ribcage and around his nipples.  Sam shivers and nods and curls up impossibly to kiss Dean, licking the taste of himself out of Dean's mouth.  Dean groans and pushes Sam off him, muttering, "Stay here."

Sam flops back on the bed and Dean can feel his eyes on him as he clambers out of Sam's bed, across the room to his own.  He digs under his mattress and comes back, shucking his boxers, and climbs back into Sam's bed, with Sam, over Sam.  Sam immediately gets his hands back on Dean, moaning, and Dean leans down to catch his mouth.

"C'mon," Dean mutters, "Shift up."

Sam obeys, for once in his life, and scoots up the bed, spreading his legs.  Dean breaks the kiss to bite the lube open and spits the cap on the floor.  Lube spills everywhere, all over Sam's thighs and Dean's hands, and Sam grabs the tube from him.

"Think that'll be enough?" Sam asks dryly, and Dean tries to glare that wry smirk right off his face.

"Yeah, bitch, I think that'll be enough."  Dean ducks down and sucks Sam's cock back into his mouth at the same time that he presses a finger relentlessly into Sam's ass, and Sam arches up and grunts in surprise.

Oh god.  Dean is completely going to die before he gets his dick into Sam.  Sam is tight, squeezing his finger, and hot as a furnace.  Dean slides his finger out and in experimentally, and Sam's cock twitches in his mouth, leaking.

"I can take it," Sam says, pushing on Dean's head-- which, rude-- and Dean frowns and adds another finger.  Sam squirms and thrusts his hips, and Dean's fingers sink deeper into him.  Sam whispers, "Fuck yeah, right there," panting, and Dean pretty much sees red.

"You done this before?" he growls, letting Sam's cock out of his mouth, and Sam's blush spreads down his chest.

"Only--" he gasps, closing his eyes and riding Dean's two fingers with little rolls of his hips, circling.  Dean shoves in hard, rubbing over that spot he's looking for, and Sam goes rigid.  "Fuck!  Only, christ, only to myself.  Jesus, Dean.  Do that again."

Dean does, if only because he's satisfied with Sam's admission.  He'd better be the first one, god damn it.  Sam is his.  His to touch, and his to fuck, and his to love.

Just to prove it, Dean adds another finger and sucks a hickey into the hollow of Sam's hip.

Sam's writhing on the bed, spreading his knees as far apart as he can manage, hands clenching on Dean's shoulder, in his short hair, in the crumpled sheets, as Dean fingerfucks him.  Dean lowers his mouth to Sam's taut sac, licking one of his balls into his mouth, and then the other, and Sam curses loudly, cock jerking and leaking sticky on his belly.

"Dean you gotta stop," Sam moans.  "I'm gonna come, man, come on, fuck me."

Well.  Dean isn't one to refuse an invitation that obvious, so he sits back on his heels and pulls his fingers slowly out of Sam's ass.  Sam sighs with the loss and stares up at Dean.  His hair is all messy and stupid and everywhere, and his eyes are huge and dark, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth again.  He's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen, all warm and pink and lean and gorgeous.  He might spend a little too long just staring, because Sam starts to fidget, getting nervous again.

"Dean?"

"Shh," Dean says, running his clean hand up Sam's thigh from knee to hip, rubbing the hair the wrong way.  "You look so good, Sammy, spread out for me."  He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of Sam's knee.  "So fucking hot."

Sam throws a condom at him, and it hits him on the shoulder and gets lost in the sheets.  Sam laughs while Dean scrambles to find it, light and easy, and Dean can almost feel his heart break with how much he loves and wants his brother.  He finds the corner of the foil and he tears it open, and Sam grabs the condom out of his hands and rolls it down over his cock.  Dean's dick jerks in his hand, and he sucks in a breath as Sam guides him firmly to his entrance.

He starts to push in, and Sam's hands fly up to his shoulders, gripping tight.  Dean braces himself with one hand beside Sam's head, the other holding Sam's hip to keep him still as Dean sinks into him.  Sam's eyes flutter closed, a pained sigh escaping him, and Dean leans in to kiss his soft mouth, bottoming out at the same time.  Sam squirms, kissing back, holding Dean's head, and Dean pulls out halfway and slides back in.  Sam's hips shift while he gasps into Dean's mouth, and Dean hears him say, "Yeah, I'm okay Dean, gimmie more."

Dean starts to fuck him, slowly at first, in and out, long and deep, and Sam's breath evens out until he's moaning quietly with each thrust.  His body is relaxed and warm under Dean's, his chest damp with sweat, and Dean presses a kiss to his temple, his forehead, anything he can reach, tasting the sweat.  Sam mouths at his neck, hands slipping down Dean's back as Dean fucks into him, hips rising slightly, pressing his cock against Dean's stomach.

"Hey," Sam gasps, tilting his head back and pressing Dean's face into his throat.  "Bite me again."  His voice is little more than a whisper, and Dean realizes he's embarrassed.  He's getting fucked in the ass by his brother, for christ's sake, and he's embarrassed about having enjoyed that.  Dean obliges him instead of making a fuss, and starts sucking and biting marks into Sam's neck and chest again.

Sam spasms, groaning through clenched teeth, and Dean fucks him harder as he presses kisses to Sam's collarbone and Adam's apple.  "Mine," he murmurs, "all mine, Sammy, you're all mine."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "fuck yeah, Dean, please."  He's shaking, sweating, arching up into Dean's mouth and bearing down on Dean's cock, and he lets go of Dean's shoulder to slide his hand between them.  "Oh god, I'm so close," he says.

"Come on," Dean says, lifting his head from Sam's neck.  Sam is hot and tight, squeezing him so hard, and Dean can feel his orgasm starting in the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight and full, and he can feel Sam's hand working his cock between them.  He's stroking it with determination, thumb slipping over the head with each pass, and he's staring up at Dean and fucking _grinning_.  _Fuck_ , Dean's done for: his whole body goes tight, head back, shoulders straining, and he starts to come in long, body-wracking shudders. 

Sam gasps and comes too, spilling over his hand and stomach, and Dean presses his forehead to Sam's shoulder and rides out the pleasure as his hips thrust short and sharp into Sam.  Sam pants and sighs and goes slack, and Dean collapses on top of him.  Sam pulls his hand free and wipes it on the sheet, and then he curls his arms around Dean's shoulders, and they breathe in silence for what might be several long minutes.

Finally Dean raises his head, and Sam opens his eyes, and he looks up at Dean with a kind of simple happiness and pure adoration on his face. 

Dean feels sick.  He shouldn't have let this happen, should have been stronger, shouldn't have let a drunken admission make all the fucking difference, should have--

"Dean," Sam says, firmly.  Dean's vision clears, and Sam's expression has changed to something more dangerous and stubborn.  "This is it," Sam says.  "For me.  You're it for me.  Don't pretend to give me this and then take it away, man, I can't handle it."

Dean shakes his head slowly.  "No," he says, and Sam pales.  "No, I mean-" he goes on quickly, "you're right.  I'm not pretending.  You're mine, baby boy, always have been."  Sam blushes, color rushing back into his face, and Dean grins.  He shifts and pulls out of Sam, and Sam makes a quiet noise.  Dean wrinkles his nose and turns away to throw out the condom.

"First shower!" Sam yells and pushes Dean off him and runs out of the room, ass-naked.  Dean swears and goes after him.  The bathroom door is already closed, but not locked, and Dean barges in and catches Sam around the waist.  The water sputters on uncertainly, and Sam shrieks as Dean shoves him into the cold spray.  Dean just laughs and gets in after him, and swears.  It is fucking cold.  He manhandles Sam until Sam is the one under the onslaught, and Sam shivers and curses and glares daggers at Dean, until the water starts to warm up, and then he relaxes and fucking purrs, tilts his head back and gets his hair wet, and doesn't let Dean get any of it.

But then he relents and pulls Dean against him so the water running over his shoulders slides between them, and Dean folds himself into his brother's warm embrace.  He should feel silly or something, but he just feels slow and sated and content with Sam against him.

Later, they're sitting on the couch eating a breakfast that might count as lunch, and Sam straightens up suddenly. "I didn't fuck Mandy," he says.

"Huh?" Dean's mouth is full, and he swallows while he raises an eyebrow at his brother.

Sam blushes furiously and avoids Dean's eyes. "I said, I didn't fuck her."

"But--"

"I took her home after the movie, and then... the car smelled like you, so I got in the back and jerked off, and then you fucking turned up like five minutes later."

Dean stares at him. "What-- why would you-- dude, don't fucking do that in my car!"

Sam laughs, relieved, and Dean knocks over his cup as he pulls Sam into a rough hug that turns into them making out for half an hour on the too-small couch.

And a week later when Dad gets back, and they pack up and move out, Sam puts up only a fraction of his token protest, yelling and stomping for only about an hour, and then he sulks in the passenger seat of the Impala for about an hour more as they follow John's truck out of town.  Dean lets him be all emo in peace, until he gets bored of it and puts on Zeppelin, and Sam starts to smile.

They have to be real careful, but whenever John leaves them alone for more than an hour, Dean will grab Sam and pull him onto the bed and fuck him stupid, or Sam will push Dean against the wall and go to his knees, and it works.  Dean sucks new marks into Sam's throat, even if they haven't fucked recently, and Sam gets all shivery and pliant, smiling up at Dean with quiet satisfaction.

Dean loves him so much. They bicker and snipe like brothers, because they are, and Dean can't take sides when Sam and John fight, but in the end he knows he and Sam are everything for each other, and they'll survive it together. And that's enough for him.


End file.
